alive
by M. Rosenkov
Summary: You will burn. Brightly. And they are the brightest colours he has ever seen. {cover art by cynthiabelmer}


**DISCLAIMER: I don't own this, but you obviously know that.**

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><p><strong>i.<strong>

**they are the brightest colours he has ever seen.**

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><p>He has your gun, you know. The Black Widow, model X. You threw it to him before jumping into that damned beam, saying that he'll <em>have better use of it<em>. It's nice, but it isn't really his thing (a thought he always kept to himself; the rifle was like a child to you). But yet, there it lays on his lap, like one of your bad jokes, a small breath, _don't forget me_.

But how could he possibly forget you?

Did you know he had a retirement plan before he met you? His savings from C-Sec would have made a comfortable retirement fund. He was to head back to Palaven (maybe join the military, for a sense of purpose), avoid his father a little longer (and longer, and longer), and then buy a nice little house by the beach and die there, in an armchair, alone, but satisfied.

You made satisfaction sound ridiculous. When you came along, suddenly wild dreams of being a Spectre or a hero were in his reach—and then you told him you loved him and _retirement_ was defined as a large house on a farm with children (yes, _children_), hamsters and a fish tank so big you could keep Leviathan in it.

He sighs. He hasn't slept for two days (fifty-three hours, to be exact). He knows, he knows; what was it he said to you? You need a clear head to win a war? Well, there is no war anymore, just the emptiness of the aftermath—the listlessness of indirection. Your cabin echoes the silence of the galaxy, and it is queer for him to be there, without your breathing puncturing the quiet, your showering (once, twice; five times) to get rid of the blood that stains your skin. He remembers coming up to see you after the Cerberus Coup and the blood was your own (a gunshot wound, upper thigh), and he remembered thinking that it was always going to end like this.

He, like yourself, always knew you were going to die.

But—damn! It didn't have to be that way, did it? He isn't one to dwell on what ifs, but—what if you didn't go up in the beam? What if someone else did it—Anderson, who saw all the potential in you, why couldn't he...

But one of the things he always loved about you was your determination and belief in yourself. You would not have had it any other way, and he... He just hopes your sacrifice is worth it. The universe has been reborn again, free of synthetic life... Free of you. There is a lot of re-building to do. A lot of grey to work with.

A faint knock at the door stirs him, and he places the gun by his side on the bed. It's just Liara. She floats in, passing him some data pads and talking about things that don't matter—tip-toeing around the truth, because if you don't admit it, it's not true, right? But her eyes wander across the cabin, and to his surprise, she smiles.

"She had nearly every species of fish in the galaxy, didn't she?"

He looks at the fish tank. It's true—there is a lot of colour in there. Not just fish, either. He always wanted to ask you why you had jellyfish. You once told him how much you hated the sea creatures, and yet, there they are ... There six of them are. Perhaps you just found them cute, or you liked the way they bobbed around the little tank, just _being_.

Liara takes her leave with a small smile (it's sad though, the corners of her mouth turned down and her eyes far, far away) and he just stands there, feeling useless with seven data pads in his talons.

His eyes travel to the gun, and then back to the tank.

You know, he finds it surprising. There was a lot of turbulence and a pretty decent crash when they left the Mass Relay out of the Sol System. Technically, the fish _should_ be dead. The glass _should_ have shattered, and they _should_ have washed out, alive briefly, flopping around on the floor before dying. They _should _have died.

But they didn't. Here they are, bright and colourful and _alive._

Garrus leans forward, resting his forehead on the tank. The glass is cool on his plates, and shuts his eyes, breathing in deeply. You know, he never put your name on the Normandy's memorial wall. He held onto the plaque, and it sits, over there on your beside. The rest of the crew had shot him sad, sympathetic looks (the lover that can't let go; the lover that can't accept), but...

He knows better. There is no Shepard without Vakarian; just as there is no Vakarian without Shepard.

And he is damn well breathing.

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><p><strong>ii.<strong>

**but you always knew it was going to end this way.**

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><p>Your dreams, they aren't what you're used to. Explosions flash behind your eyes—red and blue and green—and there is an acidic taste in your mouth, like rusted metal, like an old, sour wound.<p>

When you open your eyes, it is bright—the light, it blinds you!—and you blink rapidly, quickly, trying to focus.

And when you do, you realise that the light is the sun, and there are people moving around you, moving the rubble landscape, looking for something, something, some_one_...

_And you are alive._

Each breath hurts—a lot—each movement, though miniscule, burns—like your skin is on fire—but you move and they see you and they cry out, half-surprised, half-amazed.

Amazed that

_You_

_Are_

_Alive._

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><p>"<em>Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly."<em> ― Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman, Vol. 6: Fables and Reflections_

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><p><strong>DOUBLE DISCLAIMER: (surprise) I know, I know, I should be doing my DA2 fic, but I wrote this and thought, why not! And though it ... erm... doesn't resolve or reveal anything, Shakarian and I do what I want mwahaha. I hope you enjoyed it anyway :)<strong>


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